Lost in Translation
by DaarioWolfe
Summary: Tracer can't understand Widowmaker's French.
1. Chapter 1

"Zis ist zotally nein!" Angela Ziegler's voice comes through the comm in a very powerful fashion rivaling that of thunderclaps Tracer used to hear on the national geographic channel.

As usual, the adventurer tunes her out because she's already used to ignoring bonkers Swiss doctors with off the rocker German accents.

"Eu get back zere yung lady eu van't zust zerbandone ze zmission." Angela's voice continues twatting in her ear and Tracer finally plucks out her comm before chucking it as she races across rooftops.

"Oh crimelly wellies luv just cheers n take a tic tac." She mumbles as she dashes away, the payload growing smaller and smaller in the background with Angela fluttering her wings next to it like some hummingbird. She knows the doctor can hear her because she's still got her microphone sewed on somewhere inside her collar, but lucky for her she can no longer hear the doctor.

It's not that she's " _zerbandoning ze_ _zmission_ ". It's really just that there's something more important right now than taking care of some payload that doesn't even matter in the grand scheme of things, and that something more important comes in the form of a creepy crawler sniper that scales walls like Tracer flies planes.

Ever since Tracer encountered Widowmaker shooting that omnic in King's Row, the assassin has been rotating in her mind constantly with the end scene replaying in her head.

"Why, why would you do this?" She remembers asking, and the assassin had laughed and said something that Tracer honestly can't for the life of her make out what it is (Widowmaker had kicked her against the wall before she had the chance to ask). It sounded like jadewshare.

Jar Dew Share? Ja Dieu Share? Jer Dew Share.

After the encounter, this phrase had been repeating over and over in her head like a numbani monk chanting non-stop keeping her awake at night, keeping her awake in the mornings and keeping her afloat in the bath. It's all she can think about until her entire being is overtaken by the thought of jadewshare. It drives her nuts because jadewshare makes absolutely no sense and why would the assassin jabber to her something that makes no sense?

That's why she needs to do this. She needs to _find out_. To know, with a hunger so fervent, what exactly it was the assassin had whispered to her that night on the roof because she has this sinking feeling in her gut that it sure as crack ain't jardewshare.

Seeing a flash of red from a rooftop twenty yards out, Tracer immediately changes direction and starts dashing towards the red. She can identify that red light anywhere and not because it resembles blinkers from Amsterdam's red light district, but because she knows it to be from Widowmaker's goggles.

Time to swim, spider, Tracer thinks grimly to herself as she lands on the roof where Widowmaker is currently lounging, and hushedly approaches the assassin from behind. The assassin is completely unaware of her presence and currently has her back towards her with her body down low as she lifts her rifle up to her nostrils and starts taking aim at some unsuspecting morsel hundred yarns out through the scope.

Tracer wonders how she should approach this.

Should she say something or should she jab the assassin somewhere around her body? But then that would only alert Widowmaker to her presence and she isn't really sure she wants to do that. She isn't sure she wants to do that because a spider startled is a spider indeed.

But as Tracer ponders over this dilemma, she sees Widowmaker inhales a slow, deep breath. From what Tracer knows about the woman, she knows that means she's about to take a shot. That can't happen, not under her watch. So then Tracer panics and she does the only thing that comes to mind, she instinctively reaches over and gives Widowmaker's long lustrous hair a sharp yank.


	2. Chapter 2

A frightful scream pierces the air—  
—as Tracer pulls on Widowmaker's hair.

" _Merde_!" A short squawk, followed by what sounds like a string of fluent French curses: " _Putain de merde_! Va te faire foutre! _Salaud_! Nique ta mere, merde de _fuck_ "— though Tracer doesn't understand a lick of it, the sound of it all bouncing off the night air leaves her virtually terrified.

She has never seen the assassin so agitated before. She isn't even sure this is possible since from reports she's read she always thought Widowmaker has only two possible states: awake and asleep. She makes a mental note to ask Winston to update Widowmaker's files when she next sees the great ape.

"Grrrah!"

Tracer's thoughts are interrupted by a low, strangled rumble emitted from deep within Widowmaker's throat as the spider snaps around—fangs bared, face twisted in a vicious snarl—with Tracer still holding on to her _really_ long hair.

Uh oh.

"You," She gnashes, pupils dilating when she sees Tracer. "Did you just pull on le hair."

Tracer tries to hide Widowmaker's hair behind her back. Which is a very bad idea because all she does is succeed in reeling the assassin closer towards her.

"Let go." Widowmaker's voice is dangerously low, almost inaudible, as she stumbles forward.

"If I let go, luv, will you promise not to hurt me?"

"I will dissect you."

Widowmaker lifts her rifle and tries to take aim at Tracer, but then Tracer gives another sharp yank at the hair and Widowmaker's shot goes a mile wide as she falls to her knees.

Briefly, Tracer wonders why Talon bothered going through all the pains of making those other weird altercations to Widowmaker's body (like turning her skin blue) but then allowed her to keep this pointless long hair aesthetic.

It's almost like they were trying to create a video game character instead of an efficient assassin. Hair this long is pretty unwieldy, and can only be a disadvantage in combat, case and point as Tracer once again tugs at Widowmaker's long tresses, causing the assassin to faceplant completely.

"I need to ask you something luv," Tracer says. "If you answer it, I promise I'll let go and zip far, far away from you."

Widowmaker blindly tries to fire again, and this time Tracer dashes away at high speed while still holding Widowmaker's hair like a leash. She ends up dragging the assassin behind her ten feet across the roof.

"C'est ridicule!" Widowmaker howls.


	3. Chapter 3

It doesn't seem all that classy doing things this way, in fact, it seems downright ludicrous. Honestly, Tracer had not pictured the confrontation going quite like this in her head.

At the moment, the Brit adventurer is dangling a twitching Widowmaker by her hair off the edge of a roof. She's got the assassin's lustrous locks wound so tightly around her wrists, it seems impossible for the spider to break free regardless of how she struggles and writhes.

(Fleetingly, Tracer also wonders about the brand of shampoo the woman uses because, one, it actually smells pretty good, and not in a too-sweet floral way that Tracer finds sickening; two, it has clearly made the woman's hair like freakishly strong).

Earlier, the assassin had tried to grapple away in an effort to shake Tracer off. But she soon found herself physically incapable of swinging anywhere, what's with Tracer clinging to her like a marsh water leech and dragging her down like a load of cannonballs. Literally, Widowmaker could not get Tracer out of her hair no matter how hard she tried.

Tracer reckons the first rule of any assassin school ought to be "cut off that long hair". She's not an assassin but even she knows these things. It's just plain common sense, plain practicality. _Hair short, no worries_ , is what she likes to say.

"Hair short, no worries." She's shouting this down now to Widowmaker as the spider hangs there sadly like some worn out Christmas lights someone forgot to take down even when February has come and rolled on by.

The woman lets off a string of gibberish nonsense in response; it sounds a whole lot like French—probably is—but Tracer can't really tell because it also sounds like a caricature version of Klingon.

"You need to stop doing that, luv!" Tracer says. "I don't understand a spot of French, not one spot of your jabberyabber!"

Widowmaker flips her the bird.

"Zis you understand?" She says.

"Yea that one is universal. But hey, listen, I really need to ask you something luv. You remember that night when you shot that omnic down at King's Row?"

"No."

"Y'know, Tekhuna Matata?"

"…"

"Ok, yeah, anyway do you recall the part where I asked you—'Why? Why would you do this?' Do you remember that?"

"…"

"You laughed in my face remember? And then after you said something to me right before you slammed me into a wall—which wasn't very nice by the way, but it's ok, I'm not looking for an apology here, that's not what this is about. What I need to know is, do you remember what it was you said to me right before you slammed me into the wall?"

"…"

"What was it that you said to me? Do you remember?"

"…"

"What was it, Widowmaker? Do you remember?"

"…"

"Do you remember?"

"…"

"Widowmaker?"

"…"

"What was it?"

"…"

"What was it, please, Widowmaker?"

"…"

"Do you remember?"

"…"

"What was it? I just really need to know this."

"…"

"Was it… was it by any chance… Jardewshare?"

"… … …"

"Please, please tell me. I only want to know what it all means."

Curious. Widowmaker finds her whole body quivering. Is it aberrant? _Unclear_. All she knows is that Tracer has this uncanny ability of driving people to the brink and beyond.

Reaching down towards a thin strap above her bionic legs, Widowmaker unsheathes a small hunting knife. She wishes that it hadn't come to this. She has no desire to do this. But, Tracer.

Sliding cold steel against keratin, she (chokes back what passes as a sob and) severs her silky, French-pedigreed hair some ways below her ponytail knot.

It takes a few seconds for Tracer to register the broken connection, to realize she's now holding on to nothing but whispering tendrils of purple. And it takes less than half that for the angry spider to come scaling back up the sides of the building with terrifying vigor.

Tracer barely has time to react as Widowmaker—hair now shorn by about two-thirds—lands on the roof, promptly unleashing a volley of bullets that blankets the area.

"Easy, luv!" Tracer yells as tries to dance her way out of the sudden onslaught, pulse pistols drawn to return fire. "No need to be this nasty! I just wanted to ask you that one thing is all!"

Widowmaker clearly isn't in the mood for talking or Q&A because all Tracer hears is the sound of rapid gunfire accompanied by the discordant grinding of teeth against teeth. She can't entirely discern between the two sounds as of current.

"Y'know what they say about pullin' ponytails right?" Tracer shouts, ducking for cover behind a shallow recess near the roof's edge. "It just means they like you luv! So no need to get all shirty!"

As she's saying this, she feels a warm, moist trickle running down her left leg. Not long after, a sharp pain sinks in, overriding her brief adrenaline rush. It would appear one of Widowmaker's bullets has found its way to her upper thigh. Not ideal. Her mobility would be compromised.

She considers recalling, but realizes that would only put her in the spot she was in seconds earlier, and she can't jolly well do that now because the butt-hurt spider is still recklessly shooting up the entire area with stark abandon.

Already, Tracer regrets cramming herself into this little death trap of a nook. It's not looking good. She's not only pinned down by heavy fire from an enraged and competent assassin, she's also severely disadvantaged here in close combat situations.

Biting down on her lips, Tracer turns to the one lifeline she can think of in this situation.

"This is Tracer," she whispers desperately into her microphone. "Tracer here. I am pinned down, I repeat, I am pinned down by Widowmaker on the roof and I am in need of healing. Mercy, please, I need healing. Please, anyone, help."


	4. Chapter 4

**Moments later, on a separate rooftop.**

"Aren't we going to help her?"

"Zyes," Angela says this with a serenely beautiful face.

Fareeha studies the doctor—one perfect brow arched—before panning her gaze back to the image of Tracer, hunkered down in some pathetic alcove on a distant rooftop, her movements desperate and awkward as she tries to return Widowmaker's fire. It's apparent who possesses the upper-hand in this particular showdown.

"Let's go then," Fareeha says. "It'll be three against one, if we time this right, the extraction should be smooth. I'll cover the north-eastern exit over there and distract Widowmaker with my approach, you stay out of danger by coming in fro—"

"Nein," Angela cuts her off.

"What?" Fareeha pauses, blinks.

"Let's zwait for a bit."

Fareeha looks at her in confusion, "Um, oh... but, what are we waiting for?"

Angela only smiles.

Holding a palm up in a halting gesture, she tilts her head to the side and closes her eyes.

The doctor looks so at peace, one might think she's currently sunbathing on a yatch, listening to classical chopin.

"Drei… zwei… eins," she counts down slowly under her breath.

 _"KA-boom!"_

On the distant rooftop where Tracer is, a loud explosion rings out, followed immediately by the billowing visuals of a purple gas cloud.

"Ya lahwi!" Fareeha shouts in horror, hands instinctively flying to her face. "We need to get her out of there, now!"

She's already preparing to leap off the building and jump jet over, but is suddenly stopped by a firm, unyielding pull from Angela.

"Zwelax," the doctor says.

"Are you crazy? She's going to die, look at her!"

"Zust zwelax," Angela smiles again. "Zheroes zever zdie. Zeverything zwill ze alright, tzrust me."

The doctor steadfastly refuses to budge, so then, the two of them just stand there—Fareeha stiff as a block of ice—watching the scene slowly play out on the distant rooftop like some terrible d-film (though in reality, it unfolded in just a matter of seconds).

They watch as a coughing, sputtering Tracer half-crawls and half-drags herself out from behind her refuge now suffused with poisonous gas. They watch as Widowmaker (haircut's a little funny) walks over and kicks her savagely a few times right in the chronal accelerator before stepping on her throat. They watch as the woman levels her gun at Tracer's forehead and—despite the girl's shrill pleading—promptly puts two between her eyes.

At this point, Fareeha is too shocked to even speak, her eyes so wide like blow-up saucers.

Widowmaker soon grapples away to somewhere far removed, and only then does Angela let go of Fareeha's wrist.

"Come," the doctor says brightly before activating her Guardian Angel ability, "Zis zextraction ztime, ja?"


	5. Chapter 5

_There's nothing but darkness—crushing and loud.  
_  
 _Can darkness be loud?_ _I suppose it can._ _Because it's so loud right now, I can barely hear myself think.  
_  
 _Everything is so very empty. I feel vacant_ —

 _—like swirling in a sea of infinite zeroes—  
like being thrown back in the slipstream again—lost in time_— _but worse—now I'm lost in nothing—it's cold and freezing—it's too terrible here, I want to leave—but I can't—I'm in a void—I'm—_

 _JARDEWSHARE_

Tracer wakes with a start. Her body, beaded with perspiration, causes her clothes to cling uncomfortably to skin. Her vision is fuzzy and unable to focus on anything, there's an infernal throbbing in her brain; the pain so bad, it threatens to split her head in half.

Feebly, she tries to sit up, but fails, promptly falling back into the bed she's been resting on.

"Zwelax." A soft voice precedes the cool, gentle touch pressing against her forehead. "Zust zwelax."

 _It's Angela's voice._ Tracer's mind stirs from her haze. _Angela's accent._

"Where am I," she manages to croak. Her throat feels hot, her tongue feels thick. "Am I… am I back in the slipstream?"

"Nein," comes the response. "Zyou are zsafe znow."

Tracer squeezes her eyes shut, willing her vision to still, to stop swimming. When she next opens them again, the first thing she sees is a white, blurry figure. From the contours, she can just about make out that it's Angela. The doctor appears to be peering down at her, her body framed by white fluorescent lights that give her an almost angelic glow.  
 _  
_Tracer swallows.

"What happened?" She asks, slowly working to re-orient herself as she takes in her surroundings. The place smells familiar, like the sterile antiseptic and vapodrips they keep stockpiled in the med bay back at Watchpoint.

She sniffs the air again and blinks, realizes she is in the med bay. The stark white walls, with its ugly ship painting hanging in one corner, and the periodic series of beeps from advanced med equipment affirms this.

"You got shot by Widowmaker on the roof." Came another voice to Tracer's left. It's one tinged with a slight arabic lilt, and Tracer recognizes it almost immediately. Turning her head, she sees Fareeha—face stoic, arms akimbo—hulking in a corner by the med bay entrance.

 _Widowmaker. The payload._

It's coming back to Tracer now. How she'd abandoned mission objectives and went after Widowmaker alone. How she had tried to ask Widowmaker _The Question_ but ended up with the assassin cornering her on the roof and promptly shooting her in the—

"Ohmygod!" She squeaks. "How? How can I be here? I-I mean, I was shot by Widowmaker! She—"

 _Killed me._

Tracer looks from Fareeha to Angela. She sees the two exchange a glance. It was just a brief flicker, but she caught it nonetheless. She turns back to Fareeha; sees the woman lick her lips. The soldier looks like she's on the verge of saying something, but Angela beats her to it.

"Zyes," the doctor moves to place herself next to Tracer on the bed. "Zyes, zshe zshot zyou," she touches a reassuring hand to Tracer's knee. "Zbut ve vgot zto zyou zin ztime."

"Wait what? Got to me in time? She shot me in the head right?"

"ZYes."

"Then I-I… didn't I die?" Tracer asks, propping herself up by the elbows and slowly clawing herself up to a sitting position.

"Zyes."

"You mean to tell me you brought me back from the dead?"

"ZYes. Zat zis zcorrect. I zresurrected zyou."

"How?" Tracer's face pales as she asks this. She's not entirely sure she wants to know. It sounds impossible. It sounds like something straight out of a nightmare or some c-grade horror film. And yet, here she sits, alive even after being shot in the face point blank. Her hand wanders up to her forehead, half-expecting (and utterly afraid) to find a gaping hole, but she doesn't. The skin there is smooth.

"I've, vell, veen zconducting ze zspecial zresearch, on ze zparticular ztype of ze znanobiotech. I von't go into zdetails, vut zet's zjust zsay it's zrelatively znew. Zyou vere zpatient zero. Zor zmaybe more zaccurately, ze zfirst z _successful_ zpatient."

A lump forms in Tracer's throat, one she finds extremely hard to swallow. She's so chocked full of emotions, it's hard to pick one to stick to. Unwittingly, tears well up in her eyes, and not entirely sure why but unable to control herself, she flings her arms around Angela, hugging the doctor tightly as she sobs into the pristine, white collar of Angela's blouse.

"I was so scared," she finally bawls out, shaking uncontrollably. "I didn't want to die. I was just lying there looking up at the barrel of her gun and I realized I didn't want to die!"

Angela strokes the girl's hair gently, smoothing it down to the ends and then back up again.

"Shh, zdon't vorry," she coos. "Zyou zare zalive znow, zat's vall zat zmatters." Then almost as an afterthought, she adds: "Zheroes znever zdie."

"Doctor Ziegler…" Tracer tries to speak, but realizes that for once, she's lost for words, so instead, she settles for whispering: "Thank you—

—thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you."

"Shh. Voolish zgirl. ZDon't danke me, danke ze vonders zof ze vodern zscience."

Tracer continues sobbing into Angela's neck for what seems like a really long time, all while Fareeha stands, wordlessly watching them.

When Tracer next pulls back, her brown eyes are wet and glistening with tears, "Doctor Ziegler, I'm so sorry. I should have listened to you. You were right. I promise to never break rank and go off on my own again. Never again." With that, the girl buries her face back into Angela's collar and let out another round of muffled sobs.

It might be the fear or the relief talking, and she most likely will forget she's said this in a few months, but right now, Tracer really does mean it.

The girl may be unable to see Angela's face, but Fareeha can. The soldier's lips are pulled taut and there are moments where she looks like she really is about to say something. But she doesn't, not when Angela slowly raises a finger to her lips even as she continues stroking Tracer's hair, cooing comforting words into the little Brit girl's ear.


	6. Chapter 6

"Eu have zsomething eu vant to say?"

They are alone now.

After comforting Tracer, Angela had given her the green-light to retire back to bunk. The girl will need to come back the next morning for follow-up tests and checks, but for now she's free to smell the roses.

"ZYes?" Angela asks again, louder this time as she cocks her head to the side and languidly riffles through the medical supplies in a well-stocked cabinet.

Fareeha still hasn't moved an inch from her spot by the med-bay entrance. Her eyes are still hard as they drill into the back of Angela's figure.

"ZYes?"

The soldier says nothing.

"Zat's vhat I thought." Angela smiles.

Then, humming softly to herself, she adds, "Eu zdidn't have to stick around, eu zknow?"

She hears light shuffling from behind as Fareeha shifts her weight.

Tentatively, the younger woman opens her mouth to speak, "I just wanted to make sure—"

"—zat I zdidn't hurt Lena?" Angela throws back her head, laughing heartily, "Who zdo eu zthink I am? Ze bad guy? _Scheisse! Verpiss dich_ , Fareeha."

Slowly, she turns around to face the Egyptian, a lazy smile distorting her pretty features, "ZDon't worry, _liebling_ ," she coos. "I would znever do zsomething like that."

Fareeha studies her.

"What are you planning?" She finally says.

"ZNothing." Angela shrugs, footsteps light as she pushes off the cabinet panel and pads towards the soldier.

"You know I let all those other little things you've been doing slide because—"

"Zbecause?" The doctor cuts her off. She's mere inches in front of Fareeha now; one hand lifted to trace lightly against the tattoo below the soldier's eye. "Zbecause you like me?" She teases.

"No. Because it was all harmless… until now."

"ZBut, Lena… zis zalive zand well?"

"She died on that roof."

"I zknew she zwouldn't die."

"How can you do something like that?"

"Ztechnically _we_ zdid zsomething like zat—eu let zher die too."

Fareeha looks down at the ground.

Sighing, Angela flicks her hand away from Fareeha's cheek. "Eu are vboring me, _liebling_ —

"—ZNow. Do you vant to zcontinue vboring me vith your _dumme schlampe_ questions, or… do zyou vant your treatment? Vhich vone? I zcannot do zboth."

Fareeha knows a threat when she hears one.

She watches as Angela turns and walks back towards the medical supplies cabinet, her pale, slender hand fishing out a small clear bottle from one of the shelves and a large needle from another.

Fareeha swallows.

When she next speaks, her eyes are dark with self-loathing.

"Treatment," she says.


End file.
